by Lauren Royal
Tabitha had been quite a gorgeous diversion. Yet not particularly useful, and he’d decided practicality would dictate his interest in women from now on. Hilda, for instance—his housekeeper—was a useful woman to have around.
And as for Lady Violet…
With her shiny light brown hair and eyes the color of his favorite brandy, Violet was pleasant looking, although not the sort of beauty who would turn men’s heads. Which was fine with him, since the last thing he wanted was his head turned. He wanted it right here, thank you, square on his shoulders, where he could use it to concentrate on his experiments and inventions.
He’d sworn off women in a romantic sense, but if he could convince this Violet to stay a while—and maybe even come back with Rowan tomorrow—perhaps he could finally find time for his work.
Now, that was his idea of a useful female.
As he barged into the kitchen, his housekeeper looked up from polishing the silver, one gray eyebrow raised in query. “Yes, my lord?”
“Are the refreshments ready?”
Hilda never answered a question—she always had one of her own. “Is Lady Trentingham here?”
“No,” he said, wondering where Harry, Hilda’s husband, had gone off to this time. The two of them might be servants, but their marriage mimicked most of the aristocracy’s—which was to say they stayed as far from each other as possible.
“Lady Trentingham is at home,” he told her. “The woman’s daughter came instead. Lady Violet Ashcroft.”
“The practical one?”
“Come again?” Spotting a tray of biscuits on the kitchen’s scarred wooden worktable, he inched his way over.
“The oldest, yes? Lady Trentingham calls her ‘the practical one.’ The middle girl—Rose, I believe—is ‘the wild one,’ and the youngest, dear Lily, ‘the sweet one.’”
“She has three daughters? All named for bloody flowers?” What sentimental frivolity.
“Are you not aware that her husband enjoys gardening?”
“Yes. I am.” He slid one of the small, round biscuits off the tray and popped it into his mouth. “How do you come to know all this?”
Hilda frowned. “Why shouldn’t I know my neighbors?” She shoved at the gray hair that had escaped her cap, then went back to polishing the silver. “Lady Trentingham, she’s a perfumer, you know. Every once in a while, she drops by with a new bottle. Spiced Rosewater, I prefer.”
“Spiced Rosewater?” He reached for another biscuit.
She slapped at his hand. “Leave it, will you? I laid them out in a pattern.”
He scrutinized the tray, but his mathematical mind could discern no regular design.
“Do you not like Spiced Rosewater?” she asked.
He leaned close to a wrinkled cheek and sniffed. “It’s lovely.” In truth, she smelled like a cinnamon bun. But whatever made her happy.
“When Lady Trentingham brings it by, she likes to sit a spell and chat. I’ve heard all the stories of her girls as they’ve grown.”
“Lady Trentingham sits and talks to the household help?” Now he was the one asking questions.
“And why not? We’re people too, you know.”
Of course they were—he just didn’t think about it much. And he was woefully ill informed about his neighbors. Apparently Lady Trentingham was well-nigh as eccentric as the earl.
“Here comes Harry,” Hilda said, watching out the window. “Don’t you think it’s time to serve these refreshments?” She shoved a steaming pitcher into Ford’s hands and, taking the tray of biscuits, hurried out of the kitchen before her husband could make his way in.
Hilda came up to Ford’s shoulder and seemed as wide as she was tall. Obediently carrying the hot beverage she’d prepared, he followed her ample behind down the corridor to the drawing room. They stepped inside to see Violet Ashcroft on her hands and knees, her backside jutting into the air.
A very nice backside, Ford observed, most especially compared to his housekeeper’s. He could tell that, even through her layers of petticoats and sturdy, serviceable skirts. Which weren’t frilly in the least. It was a fitting gown for The Practical One.
Her brother was under the low, square table that sat before the couch. “Rowan,” she said. “You come out here this minute.”
“No.” The boy crossed his arms, not a simple feat given he was lying on his belly. “Not until she leaves.”
Rowan pronounced she much like Jewel had pronounced boy yesterday in the garden.
“C’mon, Rowan,” Jewel cooed, getting down on her knees herself. “Come out and play. I’ve always wanted to play with a boy.”
Considering Jewel had two brothers at home, Ford had to choke back laughter. And she wasn’t pronouncing boy that way now.
His niece was clearly in love.
And Rowan was having none of it.
“We’ve brought biscuits,” Ford declared, announcing his presence. Lady Violet gave a little embarrassed squeal and jumped to her feet. Her pinkened cheeks matched his faded upholstery.
“Biscuits?” Rowan asked. “What kind?”
The way to a Chase male’s heart was through his stomach, and Ford was gratified to see Rowan was no different. “Cinnamon,” he said.
“I’m still not coming out,” Rowan said.
“Would you like a drink of chocolate?” Hilda coaxed, taking the warm pitcher from Ford’s hands.
“Chocolate?” The boy inched forward. “Real chocolate?”
“He cannot have it,” his sister said firmly. “Chocolate gives him hives.”
Rowan crawled closer and bumped his head on the apron of the table. “Ah, Violet…”
She reached to grab him by the wrist. “Got you, you little monster.” She dragged him out. “Now, I cannot blame you for being intimidated, but you must mind your manners. Guests don’t hide under tables.”
“I want to go home.”
“Guests don’t say things like that, either. It’s very rude.”
Jewel rose and brushed off the mint green skirts that Ford had spent half an hour struggling her into. He was really much better at removing female clothing than putting it on.
“Here.” Jewel handed Rowan a biscuit, and he reluctantly climbed to his feet. “Eat this, and then I’ll show you Uncle Ford’s laboratory.”
“No you won’t,” Ford said. Not again. He’d taken her to his laboratory yesterday afternoon, hoping she’d sit quietly while he worked. Ten minutes later he’d hauled her out—just before she’d managed to destroy the place.
“Please, Uncle Ford?”
“No.”
“Puleeeeeze?” The look in Jewel’s green eyes bordered on pathetic. Chase eyes, like Ford’s twin sister’s. Just what he needed…another Chase female who could wrap him around her little finger.
Evidently she realized her feminine wiles were working, because she turned her lavish charm on Rowan. “You must stay,” she told him. “Uncle Ford has magnets, and bottles of smelly stuff, and a pen-pen—”
“Pendulum,” Ford supplied, remembering too late that she didn’t like to be helped.
But she was so intent on convincing Rowan, she failed to take notice. “Yes, a pen-du-lum. And lots of clocks and a telescope. That’s a thing to see the stars.”
“Is it?” Lady Violet asked, interest lighting her eyes. “I’ve never really seen the stars.”
Scant moments ago, she’d looked like she was ready to haul Rowan home. Not that Ford could blame her, but his own sanity depended on Jewel’s ability to befriend the boy. He had to keep the Ashcrofts here. Whatever it took.
He wouldn’t go crawling back to his brother for help.
“I think Rowan might find my laboratory interesting,” he said with an inward grimace. “And although the telescope cannot help you see stars in the daytime, if you stay until dark—”
“I cannot stay until dark!” Violet exclaimed with a horrified gasp.
Bloody hell. If she was stuck on propriety, he would invite her maid in t
o chaperone. No wonder he preferred the loose-moraled ladies at King Charles’s court. These sheltered country lasses must be damned difficult to seduce.
Good thing he’d sworn off women.
“I wasn’t planning to stay at all,” she added. “I had thought to introduce Rowan and then leave—”
“Leave me?” Rowan interrupted, looking even more horrified than she did. “I told Mum I didn’t want to come here!” He turned to his sister, burying his face in her dark blue skirts. “Would you really leave me, Violet?”
She patted him on the head. “Of course not. You must have misunderstood me.” She glared at Ford as though to say, This is all your fault. And he knew, then and there, that his happy visions of working while she and her brother entertained his niece were just that—visions. As ethereal as a dream.
Lady Trentingham’s fairy dust wasn’t working, after all. Violet’s mother wasn’t his savior, and her suggestion that the children play together wasn’t the answer to his prayers. As a man of science, he should have known better than to imagine such flights of fancy, even for a moment.
His plans were spinning out of control. No, make that his life…his life was spinning out of control. And unlike the centrifuge in his laboratory, this wasn’t a spin he seemed equipped to stop.
SEVEN
THE NEXT MORNING, Ford managed to get Jewel up and dressed by nine o’clock, at a cost of only two shillings. He was getting much better at this child care business. A good thing, because his dreams of hiring additional help had been dashed last night.
A letter from his solicitor had arrived, hinting at financial concerns and asking for a meeting in London at Ford’s earliest convenience.
Bloody hell, he thought—it certainly wasn’t convenient now. Maybe after his niece went home. In the meantime, the two of them were getting along famously this morning. Having learned what she preferred for breakfast—bread and cheese, with warm chocolate to drink—he no longer had to pay her to eat at all.
Now, if only he could bribe that Rowan boy to play with the girl, life would be rosy. True, after he’d suggested they stay into the evening, Lady Violet had hurried her brother home so fast she’d tripped over his threshold on her way out. But today was a new day, and he’d awakened with a new determination.
Desperation bred courage and ingenuity.
Getting the children together hadn’t been Violet’s idea, he reasoned, but Lady Trentingham’s. Perhaps the mother would be willing to try again. That goal in mind, he settled Jewel in front of him on his horse and began riding toward Trentingham Manor.
“What do you call her?” she asked.
“Well, my lady, of course. I would have to be much more familiar with her to use her given name.”
Jewel’s little hands tightened on his where he held her around the waist. “You’re not fa-mil-i-ar with your horse? That’s sad. Papa is friends with his horse.”
“My horse?” He was feeling thickheaded again. Women seemed to do that to him, to his constant irritation. “Of course I know my horse. But he’s not a her. He’s a boy.”
“Oh.” His niece was silent a moment as they reached the Thames and turned to ride alongside it. “What do you call him, then?”
“Galileo.”
“Gali-who?”
“Galileo. Have you never heard of him? He was born in the last century, though he lived into this one.”
“Was he a horse?”
“No.” Ford choked back a laugh. “He was an astronomer and a physicist and a mathematician.”
“That sounds boring.”
“Oh, but it isn’t.” Sunlight glimmered off the water, a beautiful morning to visit. Ford was sure this encounter would end better than yesterday’s. “Galileo invented a horse-driven water pump, and a military compass, and something called a thermometer that measures hot and cold. And a much better telescope than the one invented before it.”
“Like the one in your laboratory?”
“Well, that one is called a reflecting telescope. It’s a newer one, invented by another man named Isaac Newton, only about five years ago. But he wouldn’t have invented it if Galileo hadn’t invented his telescope first. That’s the way science works. And with his telescope, Galileo discovered moons around Jupiter—”
“Auntie Kendra told me about Jupiter. But not moons.”
“She was talking about the Roman god.” Knowing his twin’s love of mythology, she’d likely regaled the innocent girl with bloody tales of Jupiter slaying poor souls with thunderbolts. “I’m talking about the planet.”
“Like Earth?”
“But much bigger. I can show you with my telescope. And I can show you Saturn, too, which has rings around it. Galileo was the first to notice those.”
“That doesn’t sound boring.”
Behind her, he smiled. “It’s wonderful, I assure you. Did you know all the planets go around the sun?”
“Mama told me that.”
“Well, another man named Nicolas Copernicus thought so first, but Galileo wrote a book to explain it.”
“Galileo is lucky,” she said. “Your horse, I mean. To be named after a special man.” She leaned forward to stroke the animal’s jet-black mane, which matched her own dark, wavy tresses. “Rowan is named for a tree.”
“Did he tell you so?”
“No. He wouldn’t talk to me.” Ford could hear the pout in her voice. “But when you were out of the room, his sister told me that in her family, the girls are named for flowers and the boy is named for a tree.”
“That’s because their father loves to garden,” he told her as Trentingham Manor came into view.
A wide lawn studded with shade trees sat between the river and the sprawling, red-brick mansion, its uneven skyline and irregular patterned brickwork the result of a century of alterations. In the extensive gardens set around it, Ford spotted a well-dressed man fiddling with a rose bush.
“In fact,” he said, “I’d wager that’s Lord Trentingham there now.”
Ford hadn’t seen the Earl of Trentingham in quite a few years, but as they rode nearer, he could see where Rowan had inherited his looks. The earl’s dark hair glistened in the warm summer sun. He looked up, raising a hand to swipe his sweat-slicked brow.
“Who goes there?” he asked when Ford reined in beside him.
“Viscount Lakefield, my lord. Ford Chase.” Ford slid off Galileo, taking Jewel with him. “And my niece, Lady Jewel Chase.” The moment he set her on her feet, she raced to a nearby fountain and thrust her hands into the spurting water.
The earl narrowed his emerald green eyes. “Eh?”
“A long time since we’ve met, my lord.” Smiling, Ford held out a hand.
Though the man shook it warmly, he still looked perplexed. “What? What did you say?”
Too late Ford remembered Violet had mentioned her father was hard of hearing. “Ford Chase!” he fairly yelled. “I’m glad to see you!”
Jewel splashed herself in the face as her eyes popped open wide. Then she giggled, and her lips parted in a grin. “Jewel Chase!” she shouted, clearly thinking it was a game.
The earl bowed. “I’m glad of your acquaintance, young lady!” he hollered back.
“Joseph!” Lady Trentingham rounded the corner of the mansion. “How many times must I remind you the rest of us can hear just fine?” Laughing softly, she came close and kissed him on the cheek. “You forgot your hat,” she added, plopping a wide-brimmed specimen on his head.
“My thanks, love.” Apparently grateful for the shade, the earl clipped a blood-red bloom and presented it to his wife with a flourish.
“Just what I needed,” she murmured. But the smile she sent her husband was genuine.
“I’m wearing your perfume,” Jewel piped up.
The woman turned to her. “Well, then, come closer, and let me see if it’s the right scent for such a lovely girl.”
Jewel ran right over, wiping her wet palms on her dress. “Do I smell good?”
Lady Trentingham leaned down and sniffed. “You smell glorious.”
A radiant smile transformed Jewel’s face. “Will Rowan like it, do you think?”
“She’s rather fond of your son,” Ford said.
“So my daughter told me.” Lady Trentingham’s eyes danced as she looked up at him. “She also told me the feeling was less than mutual.”
“I’m afraid she was right,” he lamented. “And I was so hoping the children would get along.”
“I’d wager you were.” She looked contemplative. “Men, you know, they sometimes take a while to come around.” Her husband had resumed puttering around, but her gaze on him was unmistakably affectionate. “My Rowan takes after his father, I’m afraid, but I’m sure, given time, he’ll come to appreciate this delightful young lady.”
Ford watched as Jewel went back to the fountain, sighing when she splashed her dress. Another change of clothing in his future. He could already imagine Hilda complaining about the additional laundry and ironing. And him having nothing to do but listen, because he couldn’t work with a child running loose.
“Lady Trentingham…” Desperation setting in, he favored her with one of his famous seductive smiles. “Do you suppose your son might give Jewel another chance?”
EIGHT
PERCHING A KNEE on one of the window seats in the gold-and-cream-toned drawing room, Violet peered out the window at the blur she knew was the viscount and her parents.
“What do you think they’re saying?” she asked her sisters.
Rose pressed closer to the panes, fussing with a floral arrangement she’d set in the window niche. “They seem to be discussing that little girl who’s playing in the fountain.”
“Jewel,” Violet said. “The one I told you about who fancies herself in love with Rowan.”
Lily’s fingers glided over the harpsichord, producing a lyrical tune. “How sweet.”